IT often
happens that one or another of my friends stops before a red chalk drawing in
my study and asks me where I ever found so lovely a creature. I have never told
the story of that picture to any one, and the beautiful woman on the wall,
until yesterday, in all these twenty years has spoken to no one but me.
Yesterday a young painter, a countryman of mine, came to consult me on a matter
of business, and upon seeing my drawing of Alexandra Ebbling, straightway
forgot his errand. He examined the date upon the sketch and asked me, very
earnestly, if I could tell him whether the lady were still living. When I
answered him, he stepped back from the picture and said slowly:
"So long ago? She must have been very young.
She was happy?"
"As to that, who can say -- about any one of
us?" I replied. "Out of all that is supposed to make for happiness,
she had very little."
We returned to the object of his visit, but when
he bade me goodbye at the door his troubled gaze again went back to the drawing,
and it was only by turning sharply about that he took his eyes away from her.
I went back to my study fire, and as the rain
kept away less impetuous visitors, I had a long time in which to think of Mrs.
Ebbling. I even got out the little box she gave me, which I had not opened for
years, and when Mrs. Hemway brought my tea I had barely time to close the lid
and defeat her disapproving gaze.
My young countryman's perplexity, as he looked at
Mrs. Ebbling, had recalled to me the delight and pain she gave me when I was of
his years. I sat looking at her face and trying to see it through his eyes --
freshly, as I saw it first upon the deck of the Germania, twenty years ago. Was
it her loveliness, I often ask myself, or her loneliness, or her simplicity, or
was it merely my own youth? Was her mystery only that of the mysterious North
out of which she came? I still feel that she was very different from all the
beautiful and brilliant women I have known; as the night is different from the
day, or as the sea is different from the land. But this is our story, as it
comes back to me.
For two years I had been studying Italian and
working in the capacity of clerk to the American legation at Rome, and I was
going home to secure my first consular appointment. Upon boarding my steamer at
Genoa, I saw my luggage into my cabin and then started for a rapid circuit of
the deck. Everything promised well. The boat was thinly peopled, even for a
July crossing; the decks were roomy; the day was fine; the sea was blue; I was
sure of my appointment, and, best of all, I was coming back to Italy. All these
things were in my mind when I stopped sharply before a chaise longue placed
sidewise near the stern. Its occupant was a woman, apparently ill, who lay with
her eyes closed, and in her open arm was a chubby little red-haired girl,
asleep. I can still remember that first glance at Mrs. Ebbling, and how I
stopped as a wheel does when the band slips. Her splendid, vigorous body lay
still and relaxed under the loose folds of her clothing, her white throat and
arms and red-gold hair were drenched with sunlight. Such hair as it was:
wayward as some kind of gleaming seaweed that curls and undulates with the
tide. A moment gave me her face; the high cheek-bones, the thin cheeks, the
gentle chin, arching back to a girlish throat, and the singular loveliness of
the mouth. Even then it flashed through me that the mouth gave the whole face
its peculiar beauty and distinction. It was proud and sad and tender, and
strangely calm. The curve of the lips could not have been cut more cleanly with
the most delicate instrument, and whatever shade of feeling passed over them
seemed to partake of their exquisiteness.
But I am anticipating. While I stood stupidly
staring (as if, at twenty-five, I had never before beheld a beautiful woman)
the whistles broke into a hoarse scream, and the deck under us began to
vibrate. The woman opened her eyes, and the little girl struggled into a
sitting position, rolled out of her mother's arm, and ran to the deck rail. After
putting my chair near the stern, I went forward to see the gang-plank up and
did not return until we were dragging out to sea at the end of a long tow-line.
The woman in the chaise longue was still alone.
She lay there all day, looking at the sea. The little girl, Carin, played
noisily about the deck. Occasionally she returned and struggled up into the
chair, plunged her head, round and red as a little pumpkin, against her
mother's shoulder in an impetuous embrace, and then struggled down again with a
lively flourishing of arms and legs. Her mother took such opportunities to pull
up the child's socks or to smooth the fiery little braids; her beautiful hands,
rather large and very white, played about the riotous little girl with a
quieting tenderness. Carin chattered away in Italian and kept asking for her
father, only to be told that he was busy.
When any of the ship's officers passed, they
stopped for a word with my neighbor, and I heard the first mate address her as
Mrs. Ebbling. When they spoke to her, she smiled appreciatively and answered in
low, faltering Italian, but I fancied that she was glad when they passed on and
left her to her fixed contemplation of the sea. Her eyes seemed to drink the
color of it all day long, and after every interruption they went back to it.
There was a kind of pleasure in watching her satisfaction, a kind of excitement
in wondering what the water made her remember or forget. She seemed not to wish
to talk to any one, but I knew I should like to hear whatever she might be
thinking. One could catch some hint of her thoughts, I imagined, from the
shadows that came and went across her lips, like the reflection of light
clouds. She had a pile of books beside her, but she did not read, and neither
could I. I gave up trying at last, and watched the sea, very conscious of her
presence, almost of her thoughts. When the sun dropped low and shone in her
face, I rose and asked if she would like me to move her chair. She smiled and
thanked me, but said the sun was good for her. Her yellow-hazel eyes followed
me for a moment and then went back to the sea.
After the first bugle sounded for dinner, a heavy
man in uniform came up the deck and stood beside the chaise longue, looking
down at its two occupants with a smile of satisfied possession. The breast of
his trim coat was hidden by waves of soft blond beard, as long and heavy as a
woman's hair, which blew about his face in glittering profusion. He wore a
large turquoise ring upon the thick hand that he rubbed good-humoredly over the
little girl's head. To her he spoke Italian, but he and his wife conversed in
some Scandinavian tongue. He stood stroking his fine beard until the second
bugle blew, then bent stiffly from his hips, like a soldier, and patted his
wife's hand as it lay on the arm of her chair. He hurried down the deck, taking
stock of the passengers as he went, and stopped before a thin girl with frizzed
hair and a lace coat, asking her a facetious question in thick English. They
began to talk about Chicago and went below. Later I saw him at the head of his
table in the dining room, the befrizzed Chicago lady on his left. They must
have got a famous start at luncheon, for by the end of the dinner Ebbling was
peeling figs for her and presenting them on the end of a fork.
The Doctor confided to me that Ebbling was the
chief engineer and the dandy of the boat; but this time he would have to behave
himself, for he had brought his sick wife along for the voyage. She had a bad
heart valve, he added, and was in a serious way.
After dinner Ebbling disappeared, presumably to
his engines, and at ten o'clock, when the stewardess came to put Mrs. Ebbling
to bed, I helped her to rise from her chair, and the second mate ran up and
supported her down to her cabin. About midnight I found the engineer in the
card room, playing with the Doctor, an Italian naval officer, and the commodore
of a Long Island yacht club. His face was even pinker than it had been at
dinner, and his fine beard was full of smoke. I thought a long while about
Ebbling and his wife before I went to sleep.
The next morning we tied up at Naples to take on
our cargo, and I went on shore for the day. I did not, however, entirely escape
the ubiquitous engineer, whom I saw lunching with the Long Island commodore at
a hotel in the Santa Lucia. When I returned to the boat in the early evening,
the passengers had gone down to dinner, and I found Mrs. Ebbling quite alone
upon the deserted deck. I approached her and asked whether she had had a dull
day. She looked up smiling and shook her head, as if her Italian had quite
failed her. I saw that she was flushed with excitement, and her yellow eyes
were shining like two clear topazes.
"Dull? Oh, no! I love to watch Naples from
the sea, in this white heat. She has just lain there on her hillside among the
vines and laughed for me all day long. I have been able to pick out many of the
places I like best."
I felt that she was really going to talk to me at
last. She had turned to me frankly, as to an old acquaintance, and seemed not
to be hiding from me anything of what she felt. I sat down in a glow of
pleasure and excitement and asked her if she knew Naples well.
"Oh, yes! I lived there for a year after I
was first married. My husband has a great many friends in Naples. But he was at
sea most of the time, so I went about alone. Nothing helps one to know a city
like that. I came first by sea, like this. Directly to Naples from Finmark, and
I had never been South before." Mrs. Ebbling stopped and looked over my
shoulder. Then, with a quick, eager glance at me, she said abruptly: "It
was like a baptism of fire. Nothing has ever been quite the same since. Imagine
how this bay looked to a Finmark girl. It seemed like the overture to
Italy."
I laughed. "And then one goes up the country
-- song by song and wine by wine."
Mrs. Ebbling sighed. "Ah, yes. It must be
fine to follow it. I have never been away from the seaports myself. We live now
in Genoa."
The deck steward brought her tray, and I moved
forward a little and stood by the rail. When I looked back, she smiled and
nodded to let me know that she was not missing anything. I could feel her
intentness as keenly as if she were standing beside me.
The sun had disappeared over the high ridge
behind the city, and the stone pines stood black and flat against the fires of
the afterglow. The lilac haze that hung over the long, lazy slopes of Vesuvius
warmed with golden light, and films of blue vapor began to float down toward
Baiae. The sky, the sea, and the city between them turned a shimmering violet,
fading grayer as the lights began to glow like luminous pearls along the
water-front, -- the necklace of an irreclaimable queen. Behind me I heard a low
exclamation; a slight, stifled sound, but it seemed the perfect vocalization of
that weariness with which we at last let go of beauty, after we have held it
until the senses are darkened. When I turned to her again, she seemed to have
fallen asleep.
That night, as we were moving out to sea and the
tail lights of Naples were winking across the widening stretch of black water,
I helped Mrs. Ebbling to the foot of the stairway. She drew herself up from her
chair with effort and leaned on me wearily. I could have carried her all night
without fatigue.
"May I come and talk to you to-morrow?"
I asked. She did not reply at once. "Like an old friend?" I added.
She gave me her languid hand, and her mouth, set with the exertion of walking,
softened altogether. "Grazia," she murmured.
I returned to the deck and joined a group of my
countrywomen, who, primed with inexhaustible information, were discussing the
baseness of Renaissance art. They were intelligent and alert, and as they
leaned forward in their deck chairs under the circle of light, their faces
recalled to me Rembrandt's picture of a clinical lecture. I heard them through,
against my will, and then went to the stern to smoke and to see the last of the
island lights. The sky had clouded over, and a soft, melancholy wind was
rushing over the sea. I could not help thinking how disappointed I would be if
rain should keep Mrs. Ebbling in her cabin to-morrow. My mind played constantly
with her image. At one moment she was very clear and directly in front of me;
the next she was far away. Whatever else I thought about, some part of my
consciousness was busy with Mrs. Ebbling; hunting for her, finding her, losing
her, then groping again. How was it that I was so conscious of whatever she
might be feeling? that when she sat still behind me and watched the evening
sky, I had had a sense of speed and change, almost of danger; and when she was
tired and sighed, I had wished for night and loneliness.
II
Though when we are young we seldom think much
about it, there is now and again a golden day when we feel a sudden, arrogant
pride in our youth; in the lightness of our feet and the strength of our arms,
in the warm fluid that courses so surely within us; when we are conscious of
something powerful and mercurial in our breasts, which comes up wave after wave
and leaves us irresponsible and free. All the next morning I felt this flow of
life, which continually impelled me toward Mrs. Ebbling. After the merest
greeting, however, I kept away. I found it pleasant to thwart myself, to
measure myself against a current that was sure to carry me with it in the end.
I was content to let her watch the sea -- the sea that seemed now to have come
into me, warm and soft, still and strong. I played shuffleboard with the
Commodore, who was anxious to keep down his figure, and ran about the deck with
the stout legs of the little pumpkin-colored Carin about my neck. It was not
until the child was having her afternoon nap below that I at last came up and
stood beside her mother.
"You are better to-day," I exclaimed,
looking down at her white gown. She colored unreasonably, and I laughed with a
familiarity which she must have accepted as the mere foolish noise of
happiness, or it would have seemed impertinent.
We talked at first of a hundred trivial things,
and we watched the sea. The coast of Sardinia had lain to our port for some
hours and would lie there for hours to come, now advancing in rocky
promontories, now retreating behind blue bays. It was the naked south coast of
the island, and though our course held very near the shore, not a village or
habitation was visible; there was not even a goat-herd's hut hidden away among
the low pinkish sand hills. Pinkish sand hills and yellow head-lands; with
dull-colored scrubby bushes massed about their bases and following the dried
water-courses. A narrow strip of beach glistened like white paint between the
purple sea and the umber rocks, and the whole island lay gleaming in the yellow
sunshine and translucent air. Not a wave broke on that fringe of white sand,
not the shadow of a cloud played across the bare hills. In the air about us,
there was no sound but that of a vessel moving rapidly through absolutely still
water. She seemed like some great sea-animal, swimming silently, her head well
up. The sea before us was so rich and heavy and opaque that it might have been
lapis lazuli. It was the blue of legend, simply; the color that satisfies the
soul like sleep.
And it was of the sea we talked, for it was the
substance of Mrs. Ebbling's story. She seemed always to have been swept along
by ocean streams, warm or cold, and to have hovered about the edge of great
waters. She was born and had grown up in a little fishing town on the Arctic
ocean. Her father was a doctor, a widower, who lived with his daughter and who
divided his time between his books and his fishing rod. Her uncle was skipper
on a coasting vessel, and with him she had made many trips along the Norwegian
coast. But she was always reading and thinking about the blue seas of the
South.
"There was a curious old woman in our
village, Dame Ericson, who had been in Italy in her youth. She had gone to Rome
to study art, and had copied a great many pictures there. She was well
connected, but had little money, and as she grew older and poorer she sold her
pictures one by one, until there was scarcely a well-to-do family in our
district that did not own one of Dame Ericson's paintings. But she brought home
many other strange things; a little orange-tree which she cherished until the
day of her death, and bits of colored marble, and sea shells and pieces of
coral, and a thin flask full of water from the Mediterranean. When I was a
little girl she used to show me her things and tell me about the South; about
the coral fishers, and the pink islands, and the smoking mountains, and the
old, underground Naples. I suppose the water in her flask was like any other,
but it never seemed so to me. It looked so elastic and alive, that I used to
think if one unsealed the bottle something penetrating and fruitful might leap
out and work an enchantment over Finmark."
Lars Ebbling, I learned, was one of her father's
friends. She could remember him from the time when she was a little girl and he
a dashing young man who used to come home from the sea and make a stir in the
village. After he got his promotion to an Atlantic liner and went South, she
did not see him until the summer she was twenty, when he came home to marry
her. That was five years ago. The little girl, Carin, was three. From her talk,
one might have supposed that Ebbling was proprietor of the Mediterranean and
its adjacent lands, and could have kept her away at his pleasure. Her own
rights in him she seemed not to consider.
But we wasted very little time on Lars Ebbling.
We talked, like two very young persons, of arms and men, of the sea beneath us
and the shores it washed. We were carried a little beyond ourselves, for we
were in the presence of the things of youth that never change; fleeing past
them. To-morrow they would be gone, and no effort of will or memory could bring
them back again. All about us was the sea of great adventure, and below us,
caught somewhere in its gleaming meshes, were the bones of nations and navies .
. . . . nations and navies that gave youth its hope and made life something
more than a hunger of the bowels. The unpeopled Sardinian coast unfolded gently
before us, like something left over out of a world that was gone; a place that
might well have had no later news since the corn ships brought the tidings of
Actium.
"I shall never go to Sardinia," said
Mrs. Ebbling. "It could not possibly be as beautiful as this."
"Neither shall I," I replied.
As I was going down to dinner that evening, I was
stopped by Lars Ebbling, freshly brushed and scented, wearing a white uniform,
and polished and glistening as one of his own engines. He smiled at me with his
own kind of geniality. "You have been very kind to talk to my wife,"
he explained. "It is very bad for her this trip that she speaks no
English. I am indebted to you."
I told him curtly that he was mistaken, but my
acrimony made no impression upon his blandness. I felt that I should certainly
strike the fellow if he stood there much longer, running his blue ring up and
down his beard. I should probably have hated any man who was Mrs. Ebbling's
husband, but Ebbling made me sick.
III
The next day I began my drawing of Mrs. Ebbling.
She seemed pleased and a little puzzled when I asked her to sit for me. It
occurred to me that she had always been among dull people who took her looks as
a matter of course, and that she was not at all sure that she was really
beautiful. I can see now her quick, confused look of pleasure. I thought very
little about the drawing then, except that the making of it gave me an
opportunity to study her face; to look as long as I pleased into her yellow
eyes, at the noble lines of her mouth, at her splendid, vigorous hair.
"We have a yellow vine at home," I told
her, "that is very like your hair. It seems to be growing while one looks
at it, and it twines and tangles about itself and throws out little tendrils in
the wind."
"Has it any name?"
"We call it love vine."
How little a thing could disconcert her!
As for me, nothing disconcerted me. I awoke every
morning with a sense of speed and joy. At night I loved to hear the swish of
the water rushing by. As fast as the pistons could carry us, as fast as the
water could bear us, we were going forward to something delightful; to
something together. When Mrs. Ebbling told me that she and her husband would be
five days in the docks in New York and then return to Genoa, I was not disturbed,
for I did not believe her. I came and went, and she sat still all day, watching
the water. I heard an American lady say that she watched it like one who is
going to die, but even that did not frighten me: I somehow felt that she had
promised me to live.
All those long blue days when I sat beside her
talking about Finmark and the sea, she must have known that I loved her. I sat
with my hands idle on my knees and let the tide come up in me. It carried me so
swiftly that, across the narrow space of deck between us, it must have swayed
her, too, a little. I had no wish to disturb or distress her. If a little, a
very little of it reached her, I was satisfied. If it drew her softly, but drew
her, I wanted no more. Sometimes I could see that even the light pressure of my
thoughts made her paler. One still evening, after a long talk, she whispered to
me, "You must go and walk now, and -- don't think about me." She had
been held too long and too closely in my thoughts, and she begged me to release
her for a little while. I went out into the bow and put her far away, at the
sky line, with the faintest star, and thought of her gently across the water.
When I went back to her, she was asleep.
But even in those first days I had my hours of
misery. Why, for instance, should she have been born in Finmark, and why should
Lars Ebbling have been her only door of escape? Why should she be silently
taking leave of the world at the age when I was just beginning it, having had
nothing, nothing of whatever is worth while?
She never talked about taking leave of things,
and yet I sometimes felt that she was counting the sunsets. One yellow
afternoon, when we were gliding between the shores of Spain and Africa, she
spoke of her illness for the first time. I had got some magnolias at Gibraltar,
and she wore a bunch of them in her girdle and the rest lay on her lap. She
held the cool leaves against her cheek and fingered the white petals. "I
can never," she remarked, "get enough of the flowers of the South.
They make me breathless, just as they did at first. Because of them I should
like to live a long while -- almost forever."
I leaned forward and looked at her. "We
could live almost forever if we had enough courage. It's of our lives that we
die. If we had the courage to change it all, to run away to some blue coast
like that over there, we could live on and on, until we were tired."
She smiled tolerantly and looked southward
through half shut eyes. "I am afraid I should never have courage enough to
go behind that mountain, at least. Look at it, it looks as if it hid horrible
things."
A sea mist, blown in from the Atlantic, began to
mask the impassive African coast, and above the fog, the grey mountain peak
took on the angry red of the sunset. It burned sullen and threatening until the
dark land drew the night about her and settled back into the sea. We watched it
sink, while under us, slowly but ever increasing, we felt the throb of the
Atlantic come and go, the thrill of the vast, untamed waters of that lugubrious
and passionate sea. I drew Mrs. Ebbling's wraps about her and shut the
magnolias under her cloak. When I left her, she slipped me one warm, white
flower.
IV
From the Straits of Gibraltar we dropped into the
abyss, and by morning we were rolling in the trough of a sea that drew us down
and held us deep, shaking us gently back and forth until the timbers creaked,
and then shooting us out on the crest of a swelling mountain. The water was
bright and blue, but so cold that the breath of it penetrated one's bones, as
if the chill of the deep under-fathoms of the sea were being loosed upon us.
There were not more than a dozen people upon the deck that morning, and Mrs.
Ebbling was sheltered behind the stern, muffled in a sea jacket, with drops of
moisture upon her long lashes and on her hair. When a shower of icy spray beat
back over the deck rail, she took it gleefully.
"After all," she insisted, "this
is my own kind of water; the kind I was born in. This is first cousin to the
Pole waters, and the sea we have left is only a kind of fairy tale. It's like
the burnt out volcanoes; its day is over. This is the real sea now, where the
doings of the world go on."
"It is not our reality, at any rate," I
answered.
"Oh, yes, it is! These are the waters that
carry men to their work, and they will carry you to yours."
I sat down and watched her hair grow more alive
and iridescent in the moisture. "You are pleased to take an
attitude," I complained.
"No, I don't love realities any more than
another, but I admit them, all the same."
"And who are you and I to define the
realities?"
"Our minds define them clearly enough, yours
and mine, everybody's. Those are the lines we never cross, though we flee from
the equator to the Pole. I have never really got out of Finmark, of course. I
shall live and die in a fishing town on the Arctic ocean, and the blue seas and
the pink islands are as much a dream as they ever were. All the same, I shall
continue to dream them."
The Gulf Stream gave us warm blue days again, but
pale, like sad memories. The water had faded, and the thin, tepid sunshine made
something tighten about one's heart. The stars watched us coldly, and seemed
always to be asking me what I was going to do. The advancing line on the chart,
which at first had been mere foolishness, began to mean something, and the wind
from the west brought disturbing fears and forebodings. I slept lightly, and
all day I was restless and uncertain except when I was with Mrs. Ebbling. She
quieted me as she did little Carin, and soothed me without saying anything, as she
had done that evening at Naples when we watched the sunset. It seemed to me
that every day her eyes grew more tender and her lips more calm. A kind of
fortitude seemed to be gathering about her mouth, and I dreaded it. Yet when,
in an involuntary glance, I put to her the question that tortured me, her eyes
always met mine steadily, deep and gentle and full of reassurance. That I had
my word at last, happened almost by accident.
On the second night out from shore there was the
concert for the Sailors' Orphanage, and Mrs. Ebbling dressed and went down to
dinner for the first time, and sat on her husband's right. I was not the only
one who was glad to see her. Even the women were pleased. She wore a pale green
gown, and she came up out of it regally white and gold. I was so proud that I
blushed when any one spoke of her. After dinner she was standing by her
deck-chair talking to her husband when people began to go below for the concert.
She took up a long cloak and attempted to put it on. The wind blew the light
thing about, and Ebbling chatted and smiled his public smile while she
struggled with it. Suddenly his roving eye caught sight of the Chicago girl,
who was having a similar difficulty with her draperies, and he pranced half the
length of the deck to assist her. I had been watching from the rail, and when
she was left alone I threw my cigar away and wrapped Mrs. Ebbling up roughly.
"Don't go down," I begged. "Stay
up here. I want to talk to you."
She hesitated a moment and looked at me
thoughtfully. Then, with a sigh, she sat down. Every one hurried down to the
saloon, and we were absolutely alone at last, behind the shelter of the stern,
with the thick darkness all about us and a warm east wind rushing over the sea.
I was too sore and angry to think. I leaned toward her, holding the arm of her
chair with both hands, and began anywhere.
"You remember those two blue coasts out of
Gibraltar? It shall be either one you choose, if you will come with me. I have
not much money, but we shall get on somehow. There has got to be an end of
this. We are neither one of us cowards, and this is humiliating,
intolerable."
She sat looking down at her hands, and I pulled
her chair impatiently toward me.
"I felt," she said at last, "that
you were going to say something like this. You are sorry for me, and I don't
wish to be pitied. You think Ebbling neglects me, but you are mistaken. He has
had his disappointments, too. He wants children and a gay, hospitable house,
and he is tied to a sick woman who can not get on with people. He has more to
complain of than I have, and yet he bears with me. I am grateful to him, and
there is no more to be said."
"Oh, isn't there?" I cried, "and
I?"
She laid her hand entreatingly upon my arm.
"Ah, you! you! Don't ask me to talk about that. You -- " Her fingers
slipped down my coat sleeve to my hand and pressed it. I caught her two hands
and held them, telling her I would never let them go.
"And you meant to leave me day after
tomorrow, to say goodbye to me as you will to the other people on this boat?
You meant to cut me adrift like this, with my heart on fire and all my life
unspent in me?"
She sighed despondently. "I am willing to
suffer -- whatever I must suffer -- to have had you," she answered simply.
"I was ill -- and so lonely -- and it came so quickly and quietly. Ah,
don't begrudge it to me! Do not leave me in bitterness. If I have been wrong,
forgive me." She bowed her head and pressed my fingers entreatingly. A
warm tear splashed on my hand. It occurred to me that she bore my anger as she
bore little Carin's importunities, as she bore Ebbling. What a circle of
pettiness she had about her! I fell back in my chair and my hands dropped at my
side. I felt like a creature with its back broken. I asked her what she wished
me to do.
"Don't ask me," she whispered.
"There is nothing that we can do. I thought you knew that. You forget that
-- that I am too ill to begin my life over. Even if there were nothing else in
the way, that would be enough. And that is what has made it all possible, our
loving each other, I mean. If I were well, we couldn't have had even this much.
Don't reproach me. Hasn't it been at all pleasant to you to find me waiting for
you every morning, to feel me thinking of you when you went to sleep? Every
night I have watched the sea for you, as if it were mine and I had made it, and
I have listened to the water rushing by you, full of sleep and youth and hope.
And everything you had done or said during the day came back to me, and when I
went to sleep it was only to feel you more. You see there was never any one
else; I have never thought of any one in the dark but you." She spoke
pleadingly, and her voice had sunk so low that I could scarcely hear her.
"And yet you will do nothing," I
groaned. "You will dare nothing. You will give me nothing."
"Don't say that. When I leave you day after
tomorrow, I shall have given you all my life. I can't tell you how, but it is
true. There is something in each of us that does not belong to the family or to
society, not even to ourselves. Sometimes it is given in marriage, and
sometimes it is given in love, but oftener it is never given at all. We have
nothing to do with giving or withholding it. It is a wild thing that sings in
us once and flies away and never comes back, and mine has flown to you. When
one loves like that, it is enough, somehow. The other things can go if they
must. That is why I can live without you, and die without you."
I caught her hands and looked into her eyes that
shone warm in the darkness. She shivered and whispered in a tone so different
from any I ever heard from her before or afterward: "Do you grudge it to
me? You are so young and strong, and you have everything before you. I shall have
only a little while to want you in -- and I could want you forever and not
weary." I kissed her hair, her cheeks, her lips, until her head fell
forward on my shoulder and she put my face away with her soft, trembling
fingers. She took my hand and held it close to her, in both her own. We sat
silent, and the moments came and went, bringing us closer and closer, and the
wind and water rushed by us, obliterating our tomorrows and all our yesterdays.
The next day Mrs. Ebbling kept her cabin, and I
sat stupidly by her chair until dark, with the rugged little girl to keep me
company, and an occasional nod from the engineer.
I saw Mrs. Ebbling again only for a few moments,
when we were coming into the New York harbor. She wore a street dress and a
hat, and these alone would have made her seem far away from me. She was very
pale, and looked down when she spoke to me, as if she had been guilty of a
wrong toward me. I have never been able to remember that interview without
heartache and shame, but then I was too desperate to care about anything. I
stood like a wooden post and let her approach me, let her speak to me, let her
leave me. She came up to me as if it were a hard thing to do, and held out a
little package, timidly, and her gloved hand shook as if she were afraid of me.
"I want to give you something," she
said. "You will not want it now, so I shall ask you to keep it until you
hear from me. You gave me your address a long time ago, when you were making
that drawing. Some day I shall write to you and ask you to open this. You must
not come to tell me goodbye this morning, but I shall be watching you when you
go ashore. Please don't forget that."
I took the little box mechanically and thanked
her. I think my eyes must have filled, for she uttered an exclamation of pity,
touched my sleeve quickly, and left me. It was one of those strange, low,
musical exclamations which meant everything and nothing, like the one that had
thrilled me that night at Naples, and it was the last sound I ever heard from
her lips.
An hour later I went on shore, one of those who
crowded over the gang-plank the moment it was lowered. But the next afternoon I
wandered back to the docks and went on board the Germania. I asked for the
engineer, and he came up in his shirt sleeves from the engine room. He was red
and dishevelled, angry and voluble; his bright eye had a hard glint, and I did
not once see his masterful smile. When he heard my inquiry he became profane.
Mrs. Ebbling had sailed for Bremen on the Hobenstauffen that morning at eleven
o'clock. She had decided to return by the northern route and pay a visit to her
father in Finmark. She was in no condition to travel alone, he said. He
evidently smarted under her extravagance. But who, he asked, with a blow of his
fist on the rail, could stand between a woman and her whim? She had always been
a wilful girl, and she had a doting father behind her. When she set her head
with the wind, there was no holding her; she ought to have married the Arctic
Ocean. I think Ebbling was still talking when I walked away.
I spent that winter in New York. My consular
appointment hung fire (indeed, I did not pursue it with much enthusiasm), and I
had a good many idle hours in which to think of Mrs. Ebbling. She had never
mentioned the name of her father's village, and somehow I could never quite
bring myself to go to the docks when Ebbling's boat was in and ask for news of
her. More than once I made up my mind definitely to go to Finmark and take my
chance at finding her; the shipping people would know where Ebbling came from.
But I never went. I have often wondered why. When my resolve was made and my
courage high, when I could almost feel myself approaching her, suddenly
everything crumbled under me, and I fell back as I had done that night when I
dropped her hands, after telling her, only a moment before, that I would never
let them go.
In the twilight of a wet March day, when the
gutters were running black outside and the Square was liquefying under crusts
of dirty snow, the housekeeper brought me a damp letter which bore a blurred
foreign postmark. It was from Niels Nannestad, who wrote that it was his sad
duty to inform me that his daughter, Alexandra Ebbling, had died on the second
day of February, in the twenty-sixth year of her age. Complying with her
request, he inclosed a letter which she had written some days before her death.
I at last brought myself to break the seal of the
second letter. It read thus:
"My Friend: --
You may open now the little package I gave you.
May I ask you to keep it? I gave it to you because there is no one else who
would care about it in just that way. Ever since I left you I have been
thinking what it would be like to live a lifetime caring and being cared for
like that. It was not the life I was meant to live, and yet, in a way, I have
been living it ever since I first knew you.
"Of course you understand now why I could
not go with you. I would have spoiled your life for you. Besides that, I was
ill -- and I was too proud to give you the shadow of myself. I had much to give
you, if you had come earlier. As it was, I was ashamed. Vanity sometimes saves
us when nothing else will, and mine saved you. Thank you for everything. I hold
this to my heart, where I once held your hand. Alexandra."
The dusk had thickened into night long before I
got up from my chair and took the little box from its place in my desk drawer.
I opened it and lifted out a thick coil, cut from where her hair grew thickest
and brightest. It was tied firmly at one end, and when it fell over my arm it
curled and clung about my sleeve like a living thing set free. How it gleamed,
how it still gleams in the firelight! It was warm and softly scented under my
lips, and stirred under my breath like seaweed in the tide. This, and a
withered magnolia flower, and two pink sea shells; nothing more. And it was all
twenty years ago!